The Long Twisted Way Home
by Sjips
Summary: "Sjin shivers against him, and he cannot say anything in response to Sips' claim to justify himself – it has always been that way; Sjin taking advantage of Sips' mob background – " Sjips. Minecraft setting, with a bit of new background in the mix. Extremely explicit.


A/N: I've finally broken. I've finally written Sjips - the best ship that ever was. Of course, it had to be on a new anon account. Thanks for reading.

* * *

The heavy wood door rattles as it slams shut and Sjin stands there for a moment in the CEO office, breath coming thin and cold through his nose. He can't quite remember, exactly, the decision to come here; the walk across the compound, the staircase up with its blue carpeted steps that seems to grow darker and more familiar with the years. It's not precisely clear, none of it, but that doesn't matter because he is _here_, and he knows what he –

Not what he wants, exactly, but _needs_.

(It feels vaguely off that he is wearing his orange space suit again, not the loose attire of his farm, nor the tattered loin cloth from a decade ago.. he has been to Sips' office many times since such wardrobe changes, of course, but never with the same proposal as now – never with such a disadvantage.)

Not like now.

As soon as he enters, he feels the stiffness in his lean shoulders lessen and become tired, like they always do when he sees his boss, the sarcastic and wryly man that he is, as if surrendering to him.

But, this time, he forces himself to straighten immediately afterward.

Sips looks up from his desk (he's reading, to his dismay no doubt, starting trouble or salvaging something – trouble, Sjin would rather guess). There are maps spread all over the desk of this world and the next and he's got his cape draped over the back of his chair, the ends of his gloves disappearing into turned-up shirtsleeves. His eyebrows rise. He half-stands as Sjin crosses the room.

"What brings you–"

It ends in a sharp startled sort of sound as Sjin curls his fingers into his collar and yanks Sips to him.

Sips tenses, does not pull away, not quite, but his hands settle on Sjin's shoulders, holding tightly, letting him know that he is putting up with Sjin only, not letting him control it, and the kiss he returns is dry and brief and not enough. "What do you want?" he demands after breaking it off, impatiently.

It is not out of curtsey that he asks, Sjin knows. It is annoyance. It is with the knowledge that Sjin has already abandoned him to his Dirt Factory, left his lover and best friend for the pursuit of other things, and that he is back, now, for the first time, wanting _something_. Because Sips knows that look, and yet –

"Nothing."

"Mm."

He tastes of heat and smoke, as ever, and some sort of expensive tobacco and _fire _and Sjin wants to drown himself into his mouth – like old times – wants to take possession of this man and take him down to a dark room and take him apart –

Sjin _shudders _against him and kisses him like he has learned to.

His fingers are cold against Sips' neck. His fingers are shaking as they start to push up his shirt. It's weakness, or something, whatever had driven him blindly up here, tiny tremors just below the surface; _obvious_. Sips breaks the kiss, does not give Sjin what he desires, pulls him back and up by a lanky arm. "_Stop,"_ he commands and eyes Sjin critically with his cold eyes. He still has the voice of a CEO, so Sjin freezes up immediately at the sound. Almost mutters_ boss_ in sullen reply_.__"_What do you want?" he says again.

"Nothing." Sjin closes his eyes and draws a sharp breath;thinks of old times, of his mistakes; thinks of a fire-eyed Rythian with iron golems that have grown taller than customary; thinks of his apprentice, Kim._ "Nothing." Everything, _he thinks of screaming, overturning Sip's infuriatingly teak desk, sending glass and paper all crashing and shattering to the floor. He thinks of Kim's horror-wreathed face; thinks of lovingly taking someone apart in the dark. _Absolutely _**_everything_**. "You."

"No." Sips catches Sjin's chin in his hand and makes him open his eyes to look at him.

He has never, in the years he's been with him, known Sips to remove his gloves for more than the time or two Sjin had _insisted,_ (begged, whined, hedged) and he'd actually used his hands, his real, warm flesh to touch him. The gloves, now, are quite cold on his skin. Sjin hates them, so much.

"You only come here when you want something," says Sips quietly, peeved, gesturing to his cramped office. He studies Sjin, whom keeps still as the hand drops from his face and trails down his arm, thoughtful, then finds its way to more interesting territories. "You only ever want to lead a fuck when I can give you something. But what do you _want?" _His eyes narrow, a sliver of concern and old warmth surfacing beneath the bitterness that has gathered. "Look at you. You're actually _fright_-"

Taste of salt and smoke and being burnt alive and drowning, yes, indeed. Sjin's lips grapple to wrap his head around it – as they always have – and Sips makes a low growl of a noise into his mouth. Sjin can't tell if it's _frustrated _or _pleased_. He does not care – does not _care, _because when he insinuates himself against Sips' body like this, lean frame against rigid lines, long-fingered hand stroking the sharp square of Sips' jaw, he is not a subtle or shy man at all.

(He _needs_ obvious, now.)

_What do you want?_

It is laughably easy to _take this man apart_, strip him down to a _want _that is so easy to name.

His hands are trailing over Sjin's chest and his hips and the small of his back, all the different parts of him in turn, parceling him off. (Not what he wants!) Sjin takes his hands, settles himself between his arms, and helps him unzip and peel his spacesuit and all the rest away like snakeskin. The sound that Sips makes when Sjin seals his mouth against the rough curve of his throat is _lovely._

But, mostly, it is encouraging.

"I want – " he begins.

He is scared to voice it.

He wants so many things, that contradict, that can't be.

But this is something that must be done – something a man like Sips can do – something Sips will _loathe_ –

Sjin closes his eyes, sets his teeth against the line of a vein, carefully, and feels it thrum. Sips' hand slides not so carefully, not so caring at all, down Sjin's back and chills him in its wake, and the room is so cold. At least it seems that way to Sjin. He blazes in the middle of it. "There's a man," he manages, into his pale skin, his pulse. The words are sharp; as halting as could be. "I need you to kill him."

Sips goes still.

"Please," he adds after a moment.

(Begging... something he's not done in a long, long time.)

He stills – then he twists himself away from Sjin. Sjin tries not to let his chest collapse in dread, and Sips lifts him up, easily, sits him upon his desk so that they are of height to look each other in the eye.

It is not like Sjin has anywhere else to look.

Sips' fingers are tangled into Sjin's hair, that he's let grow out, and he wrenches Sjin's head up, and there is no distance between them at all. Sips' free hand does not cease in its exploration of his skin (which has gone, it seems, from leisurely to businesslike); does not cease in quietly pushing the spacesuit down his chest, either. His eyes are very flat, and as gray as the smog that floats over the factory. It puts Sjin in mind of the eyes of a shark. He wonders how he could have ever forgotten this.

"Spare me the begging," he says – very much in the depths of his CEO-side. "What are you offering?"

Negotiations, not refusal. (_It is not a no_, Sjin thinks, feeling girlish; the thought worded exactly the same as the one that used to run through his head more than a handful of times as they worked together, as Sips was boiled down to something as sweet as sugar, with a laugh loud and carefree enough to brighten the face's of angels, when innuendos and passing touches made him hope for _more_... )

But now he sees only the bitter; he sees that since he's left that Sips has become a man of anger again.

Nervously, Sjin's tongue passes out over his lips. He watches Sips' eyes follow it.

"I can pay – "

"Forget your money," Sips snaps. He peels away his under-cloth, catches Sjin's wrist when he reaches for Sip's own boxers, then releases Sjin as soon as he can feel the way his hand is shaking. Sjin can see that he's already wanting – ready – but there are more important matters, it seems. Like the way he braces Sjin by the small of his back, strokes the tip of one gloved finger over him so that his hips jerk and he _squeaks_. His nails make a sharp scratching sound against the inferior wood of the desk. Sips doesn't seem to care. "I have all the money I need. You can't offer me something I already own."

(And his hand wrapping around Sjin, lets him know that he already owns _that_, too.)

(Sjin has set himself into this possession, this vulnerable place – used to revel in it.)

He is losing his standing – all of it – and, more importantly, his bearings.

_Offer him something he does not have... that he does not.._

He is a CEO of his own multimillion company. He owns _everything_ within reach.

The sound in Sjin's throat is a small despairing sort of moan and he grabs at Sips with the hand that isn't scrabbling uselessly over the wood, tries to drag Sips to him, to offer him lips of his. He will not let himself be moved. The fingers around him are incessant. "Take off your gloves," Sjin manages.

"No." The hand not palming him runs up his spine, files each little notch between the bones, until its rubbing cold leather over his bearded cheek, slipping passed lips parted in wanting. Then they're inside him, curled, the flat of Sips' palm curved against his backside. Sjin imagines the scars he knows are there, bright as stars on Sips' street-roughened knuckles, and he shivers. "What are you offering?"

To Hell with him, he's still fully-dressed and it shouldn't be this _good_.

"I can get on my knees for –" and the _you _is lost in a gasp and a snap of his hips. He bites his lip and closes his eyes. It is something that he's not done since they'd last seen each other, months and –

"No," Sips repeats.

"Then I-I can speak to – " Sjin loses the thought. "I will –"

"You can't offer me anything" says Sips, "that I don't already have."

Sjin thinks of telling him he is the reason he has anything, that it is a multimillion company he stands on top of, because of his help, because of his support and architecture skills, when it could have been nothing at all. Poverty, instead of a kingdom. A lonely existence, if he'd gone to Honeydew inc. instead.

(Then again, Sips could just argue that he has already re-paid that, a hundred times over, or that he could have done it by himself, that he would have only gone to uglier means and, indeed, lonely times.)

His mouth finds Sjin's and smothers the despairing cry he wants to make, fierce and possessive and tasting all of fire, and Sjin finds himself straining towards him and seeking out whatever contact he can find even as his hands splay flat against the wood, skitter over the papers and maps and precious letters. His back arches. His body is pulled taut around the center of the world that is Sips' hand, the hand inside the glove, dammit, why won't Sips _touch him_. "I am sick," Sips mutters, "of your _game_, of you thinking I am your personal cleaner, to boss around and call to your will, with all your wiles." He twists his fingers and Sjin _whines_ – "You have _no idea_." And his mouth is _cruel _and the hand that's not working so sweetly down between Sjin's legs describes the planes of his chest and his slender hips and his thighs as if he is being parceled off, taken apart in a dark room where no one will hear the screaming –

Sjin shivers against him, and he cannot say anything in response to Sips' claim to justify himself – it has always been that way; Sjin taking advantage of Sips' mob background – and the words all come tumbling out in a flood: "It's Rythian. H-he follows my apprentice around. Kim. I've c-caught him in my fields...watching her. She woke up this morning with the window open, missing a lock o-of her hair, missing a shirt... her brush. He's told Honeydew _'in jest' _what he wishes to do to her and –" Sjin breaks off, panting. "He thinks he'll get at me, I know..." Desire _twists _the words in his mouth, makes them come out sharp and raw and flavored all with fire. "I _need _him dead because – "

Sips' mouth finds a place high on Sjin's slender throat where he will be sure to leave a mark, dark and solid for all to see, and all Sjin's words trail off and get tangled and lost somewhere between Sips' teeth and his tanned-skin. "Your apprentice?" Sips' murmurs. "The short black-haired girl you keep?"

"Y-yes."

"Rythian is not out for _you_?"

"Not exactly, please –"

_Emptiness_, sudden and shocking, and the gloves aren't gentle against his skin, his hips, not at _all _as Sips lets him up, turns him around, pushes him down against the desk with all the papers and scheming spread out below him and against his bare chest and belly. Sjin tries to get up for only a moment. He feels Sips' lips ghosting over his hair – just that hint of gentle and tender that makes Sjin melt against him –, hears the clink of a belt buckle, a hard heat pressed so suddenly against him.

"Kim's not my concern," Sips tells him. "Why should I care what Rythian does to her?"

"She's my –"

"Apprentice?" Sips asks, tongue on his neck. "Or more?" A pause. "Maybe I should offer her to him."

"No!" Sjin's heart seizes. " She doesn't deserve that. It's not like –"

"It is bound time I got rid of her," he continues, pressing Sjin down harder against the desk; there will be bruises all over his ribcage tomorrow. "I want you back here with me. I miss you, you big bastard."

"I'll come back," Sjin insists. And he _wants_ to. He _does_. "But only if you help Kim – I need her safe– "

Sips gives a laugh. One that sounds almost like his real laugh, as if Sjin pressing back against him and Sjin's need to protect someone from harm that would only be his fault is enough to begin to melt away the layers of bitterness and anger and _protection_ he has built up around himself from the moment Sjin had stepped from the compound. His hands firm on his hips, bruisingly-firm. "You never change, Sjin."

"Neither do you, Sipsy," is the breathy reply.

"I can poison him," Sips murmurs. "Spike his drink. A quiet thing. No one will ever know."

"No. I want you to _kill _him."

Sjin's voice cracks on _kill _as Sips takes him in one solid, steady thrust. Sjin curls his nails underneath the rim of the desk and gouges up splinters as the second thrust rocks it, a bit. The thunk of wooden legs on stone floor. The words he speaks are little bursts of heat on his stinging lips. "I want you to murder him," Sjin breathes, even as he presses back against him, even as his body is borne down under the rhythm of Sips'. They are words he would never have spoken a decade ago, before he'd made a bitter enemy of Rythian, before Rythian thought to use everything against him. "I want him to know why, that Kim... is not to be touched. That no one of _mine_ –" And there is something in that word something like weakness, for Sips – "I want you to stab his throat or slit him open, an arrow to his eye, I want his blood all over his compound, I want you to be – I want you to come back soaked with it – "

Sips' voice is _harsh _on the edges. "You've got no idea what you're asking."

"I-I don't care." Sjin twists over his shoulder to look at him, and the angle is awkward and it does not _matter _because his eyes are glittering and Sips' own are dark, so dark. "I want you to rip him to pieces, and I want you to leave him in the gutter for the rats so that no one will ever, ever find him –"

_Prove how strong you are_.

The desk rocks and he gives a _cry,_ panting, back arched like a drawn bow, and Sips' mouth against the nape of his neck is a brand on his skin. He presses Sjin down, pins an arm between his chest and Sjin's back, and the whimpers Sjin makes has him grinning. All the words he wants to say, the murder and the _fear _driving the demands, get all twisted and wrenched into mewls when faced with that incessant heat. "Stupid bastard," Sips is muttering (and Sjin's not intended to hear, he's _not, _the words are rough and make no _sense_). "Idiot. Going after your apprentice instead of you," and the wood scrapes rhythmic against stone and something flutters to the floor, one of the maps or precious letters.

There are no words after that. Sips' moments of tenderness, of hands rubbing against the lines of Sjin's hips or forking through his silky brown hair, are rare, but this is nothing new – he is just a fierce _intent._ Sjin arches underneath him and thinks of things being ripped apart and claimed in the dark. He snaps against him eventually, in a finality, a wordless red _want._ No sooner has Sips finished and bitten his climax into the mark on Sjin's skin then he gathers his architect up, sets him on shaky feet, and frowns.

Sjin does not question Sips when he shoos him to his bedroom as he re-dresses, saying something about finishing business or some other. Sjin just knows that the bed is familiar, with its soft wool and everything else, and that Sips arrives near an hour later to join him. As he enters, he's looking solemn, and he peels off those damned gloves while he stands in the doorway. Then he paces over, flops onto the bed like an oversized puppy, and raps his bare knuckles against the headboard. "Real mahogany."

Sjin runs a hand over the wood. "Imported?"

Laughter. "No," Sips says. "Who do you think you're looking at?"

It was posed as a real question and Sjin blinked over at Sips' wide grin, dumbfounded. "My boss?"

More laughter, a light punch to the shoulder. "A lumberjack, you dum-dum. Cut and shaped it myself."

"Really?"

"I had to figure out some way to get you back in my bed, didn't I? Figured it would be that, not killing."

Some of the solemness returns, but Sjin is quick to duck forward and press his lips to his. The kiss is softer than before, and Sips' hands are warm against his neck this time around, are sweet as he traces down over him, finds the familiar shape of Sjin, and it is not like bring owned or parceled off in a dark and secret room at all. Sjin's own hands, at some point, stop shaking, and trail over Sips softly.

"Rythian?" Sips confirms, some time much later when the evening light is coloring all the wood and glass in the room with fire and gold. Sjin is curled up and languid and content amidst the tangle of his sheets, rubbing absently at the bruises forming across his ribs, but at the name, his head snaps up.

He nods, once, then considers and hesitates before saying, "Thank you."

Sips only grunts, rolling onto his back and stretching; nearly pushing Sjin off the bed in the act. Sjin rolls and uncurls, then re-curls against his side. Sips snorts harshly. "I almost forgot how god damn feminine you are," he says, and then: "Shouldn't you be getting back to that farm of yours?"

It sounds like a dismissal; like those 'babby' comments or 'getting to work' ones that usually came after Sips muttered something a little less than teasing, that sounded a lot like fondness – even love, at times – back in the good days and Sjin takes the cue to climb out of the bed, though his movements are reluctant and dragging – as they always were, even in those times. As he dresses, something flickers in Sips' eyes, under the mask that he is so careful to keep. Something Sjin can't quite name; regret?

Sips stands, too, and Sjin considers that he's roused himself to another go at it, but he does not quite look at him, and Sjin settles back into zipping his suit after a moment, contents himself with watching Sips getting dressed, gathering his things, preparing. Just as Sjin is about to leave, Sips tsks at him.

"On second thought, you'll owe me.. might as well be ready to pay that debt when I get back."

Sjin stares at him for a moment, not comprehending, until Sips tips his head toward the bed.

He departs, and Sjin peels away the suit he'd just so recently replaced to reveal the bruise-colored flesh, only to hide it again amongst the blankets that smell all of him, and sweat, and are as sweet to him as Sips' favorite scotch.

* * *

When he wakes in the morning, the room will be thick with the smell of blood. It will spatter and soak the cape that Sips drapes on the chair. It will be under his nails as he tilts Sjin's head back and kisses him, and Sjin will hardly notice that the _hunger _in that touch will not taste all that much of anger.


End file.
